


So Put Your Pretty Little Hand In Mine

by casualcoterie



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcoterie/pseuds/casualcoterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My fill for the Brittanacon prompt project. PROMPT: Pregnant!Santana getting ready with Brittany to walk a red carpet (it can be for either of their careers), bonus if there’s an appearance from overprotective!Brittany at some point during the event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Put Your Pretty Little Hand In Mine

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr.](http://brittanaconvention.tumblr.com/post/122501308880/brittanacon-prompt-project-18a)
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> [edit] I posted this hours before the same sex marriage decision, honestly not expecting it to go down how it did. So. A sincere thanks for fucking up that minor plot point, real life - [never been happier to be wrong](http://casualcoterie.tumblr.com/post/122507973374/ok-but)!

"Come back to bed, Mama."

Santana turns, surprised, to see Brittany leaning against the terrace door frame. Surreptitiously she tries to hide the box of _pain au chocolat_ she is snacking on behind her increasingly wide back. It’s not terribly effective. It’s a big box.

Brittany shakes her head fondly. “If you come now I won’t complain about you eating in bed,” she promises around her yawns.

“Wanky.”

When Santana doesn’t make a move to get up, Brittany slinks across the terrace to flop onto the couch beside her. They lay still for long moments, until Brittany yawns again and curls onto her side to lay her head precariously on what’s left of her wife’s lap. “Sick?”

“Just nerves,” Santana reassures her. “And heartburn.”

Brittany hums and slides one arm around Santana’s waist, fishing blindly until her fingertips hit the edge of Santana’s freshest obsession. There’s a short squeal and then the box is jerked beyond her grasp. She smiles sleepily and presses her lips against the belly she’s been resting her forehead on. “Come on, sweetheart. Chocolate isn’t good for your acid reflux.”

“Ugh,” Santana complains. Brittany reaches above her head for the box that her wife is holding out from her but it only makes Santana pull it further away. “Just call it heartburn. ‘Acid reflux’ is what old people who take buckets of pills with their five small meals a day get.”

“I thought we were in this together,” Brittany tries, pouting out her lip until it drags against the stretched fabric of Santana’s nightshift. “I’m not allowed to have anything good until after the premiere so I can fit into my dress and here you are teasing me with pastry.”

Santana groans, the long _ohhhhh_ making Brittany smile as her shot hits its mark. “That is so cheap. How are you gonna work me like that?”

Brittany waits patiently. With an irritated sigh, Santana drops the box on the couch near her and she warmly nuzzles into the drum-tight expanse of Santana’s belly. Santana rakes her fingers through hair, carding out the tangles and snags that sleep has made.

“We can go home tonight, if you want,” Brittany offers. “You don’t even have to go to the interview this morning if you’re not up to it. We might be able to get tickets home for right after the premiere.”

It’s a tempting offer. She feels tired - a combination of weird physical ailments (like the fact that her mouth looks like she lost a prizefight after her morning ablutions, no matter how carefully she flosses - made even more frustrating by the fact that Brittany is god awful at “remembering” to brush her own teeth and tried to convince her that they should just stop altogether while she’s spitting out mouthfuls of pink froth) and the difficulty of sleeping with her giant stomach in the way - and the stress of a hugely publicized event where gorgeous, world famous actresses will be in dresses much more expensive than her own makes everything feel so much worse.

Brittany sits up, kisses her. It’s sudden and chaste, but Santana makes it more by sucking her wife’s thin, sweet bottom lip between her own and nibbling gently. Brittany’s hands go to Santana’s stomach, and Santana feels them warm her all the way down. Brittany’s fingertips rub and stroke in a familiar, searching pattern - around the circumference and then inwards in ever smaller circles. “Is she awake?” Brittany whispers, reverent. Santana shakes her head and kisses her again, soaking in the pleasure of Brittany's soft smile against her mouth.

When Brittany pulls away Santana stays still, eyes dark and sharp as she tracks her every move. It's clear as day where Santana's head is at when her wife’s eyes roam over her breasts, down to her hips and thighs, but Brittany knows that what makes Santana feel good right now won't necessarily make her feel _well_. So she trots away, acutely feeling Santana's gaze as she slips back into their rented villa. 

She's not gone more than a minute but she's sure that when she comes back out she'll find Santana with her hand in the cookie jar. It's a pleasant surprise when Santana is just waiting, fingertips absently tracing over the stripes of her tiger print slip. Brittany tucks the giant queen blanket dragging behind her under one arm, as much as she can, and returns to her wife's side, offering her a hand up. Santana holds tight and leaves most of the work of lifting her weight to Brittany. With a delicate grasp, Brittany holds her hand to lead her to a lounger on the other side of the patio, settling in and then spreading her thighs. “Come rest with us for a little while longer, ok?” Brittany murmurs, patting the space in front of her. _Us_ rings in Santana’s ears, and she gets a little rush at the thought of the baby and Brittany together, of Brittany thinking about the baby as her own person - especially when she, herself, often forgets that it will be, and soon. She thinks about Brittany holding the baby in her arms and it feels like she’s already dreaming.

Gracelessly, she maneuvers onto the narrow seat, letting Brittany’s arms guide her so that they rest chest to back. Brittany drapes the light coverlet around them, sliding her hands under to cradle the heavy weight of her wife’s belly. It’s warm, between Brittany and the blanket on top of her, and there’s a delicious, cool breeze kissing her face, and there is Brittany kissing her face. There is absolutely no reason for her to ever move again, Santana feels, and she doesn’t fight against the sleep tugging at her eyelids.

~~~

There is banging and there is sunlight. Brittany is not fond of either of those things as she wakes up. She can feel her wife slowly rousing, rolling to her side and placing one foot, then the other onto the ground. She protests weakly and Santana laughs at her whining, at the way she grabs feebly at her bicep.

“You need to get up, Bijou.” Santana squints a little, turning her gaze to the sun just starting to illuminate the hills that surround Cannes. “You’ll burn.” Brittany grunts in response, throwing the blanket over her head.

In the semi-darkness she hears Santana leave and quickly return. “Brittany, whoever is at the door is speaking French and I think they said ‘police’. Do I need to hide anything? I’m pretty sure they won’t cavity search a pregnant woman.”

Brittany groans and flings the blanket off, resigning herself to the fact that she has to get up. “They can’t prove anything.”

“Ok, I can’t tell if you’re serious or joking and I really need to know right now.” Her hands are holding each other, fingers stiff. “Because I love you and I want to support you but I also don’t want to risk our baby being born _French_. You can’t be president of the United States if you’re French!” Brittany untangles herself from the bedding and stumbles as she gets her feet under her. 

“It’s a joke, we’re not going to French prison,” she assures her flustered wife. “They probably don’t even lock the doors, anyway.” She kisses Santana briefly, mouth closed against what is surely some atrocious morning breath on both their parts. There is a rapid pounding - not terribly loud, but brisk and impatient - and she tugs her shorts down her thighs a bit as she sleepily stumbles to answer the door.

“ _This is the_ police nationale _! We are looking for Britney Spears!_ ” She’s actually shocked into stillness for a minute, not totally alert yet, before the pounding starts again and the increasingly familiar voice calls out for “Britney Spears” once more. Suddenly it becomes clear, and Brittany doesn’t know if she should laugh or open the door and punch the man on the other side. 

Brittany turns to look at Santana, who clearly does not understand most of the loud talking and missed the subtle enunciation in the unfamiliar language. She has a look on her face like she’s planning how they can survive in the French wilds or something. “It’s Artie, baby.”

“That fuck.”

Brittany opens the door, and it is Artie, sitting there with a smile too big for his face. “Gotcha.”

“You asshole! I’m going to push you down the stairs.”

Artie is far too amused at Santana’s irritation, considering there’s always a better than nil chance that she’ll act on her threats - Brittany has learned that doing anything “one more god damn time” is not a challenge she should always rise to meet. “Should I be worried the next time we go through customs? You seemed really nervous.” Artie wheels close, right up to Brittany’s toes as she blocks the doorway. She arches her eyebrow at him before stepping out of the way and letting him come inside, and he rolls right over to Santana like his life means nothing to him. She gives him a big sulky grump. “Well, Shawty, I think your mamas are mad at me but I bet you are wishing me a good morning,” he quips from his eye level view of Santana’s stomach.

“Her name is Rolo today.” Brittany’s drolly informs him.

Santana smiles at this new information, and Brittany loves the way her entire body lights up. “I like that one.”

“Better than Toblerone,” Artie agrees. “Speaking of… I’ve got a present for some hot mamas in my bag if someone wants to get it.” Brittany figures that’s why he felt ballsy enough to play a prank on Santana, if he was bringing her a present.

That’s how she usually gets out of trouble too. There’s a whole tier of Santana’s jewelry cabinet called Penance for how often she uses bling to gild her apologies. Although that is not without its downsides, since each piece also has a name like “That Time Brittany Wore My Favorite Mikimoto to a Music Video Shoot and Lost It” or “Brittany Thought She Was Slick and Got Punched For Talking Shit and I Had to Find the Best Plastic Surgeon to Set Her Nose” or “Brittany Gave Me Food Poisoning VII”, so she never really lives any of them down.

“Uh, Artie, this present is groceries,” Brittany says as she digs through his backpack on the back of his chair.

“Breakfast, woman! I did my part by participating in local commerce: got some rolled oats, eggs, spinach and veggies, croissants - a healthy way to start our day. Tina’s coming soon, she slept in.”

Brittany scowls. “We were, too.” She drops stuff on the table, and at the bottom of his bag are two stacked boxes with tiny brightly colored macaroons on the logo. She carefully lifts them out and Santana’s eyes trace the edges of the packages like they did her ass earlier this morning.

“I got that chocolate butter cream,” Artie crows. Santana grabs his hand and lays it on her stomach. They both go silent and still for a long moment before he breaks out in a grin that Santana quickly matches. “Now you know she heard that. Candy Girl has a sweet tooth.”

“Do not serenade my baby. That song is inappropriate.” Santana starts, but he’s already dancing in his seat like some kind of wannabe teen heart throb and launching into verse with both hands resting gently on her bump. “No. No! Stop. No being creepy with my unborn child!”

Brittany moves Artie’s purchases to the kitchen area and smiles as Santana makes him holler by tugging his ears harshly.

She opens the high cabinets, poking around to see what has already been furnished, and pulls down cutting boards and bowls of various sizes . There’s a scuffle behind her that she ignores, more than sure that Santana can handle herself against any single person in this province.

Artie sighs, overwrought, when Santana takes control of the handles of his chair and pushes him over. “The only reason I’m not locking my wheels is out of respect for my godchild.”

“We’re not making you and Tina her godparents,” Santana says by rote. The usual noise of skeptical dismissal follows.

“The view from our hotel is amazing, but the kitchen is not wheelchair friendly. I can’t turn around, I can’t even see over the counters. This is nice. I’m gonna cook you ladies the best omelette you ever had. Y’all go ahead and do what you do.”

Brittany saunters behind Santana, wrapping her arms around the memory of her waist and running her hands over her. “Well, if you don’t need a spotter I’m probably gonna do my -”

“Don’t share our business.”

Brittany nuzzles into her cheek, running her nose down the soft plane of her neck and back up the trail to her tiny ears. “Will you shower with me?” The airy whisper makes Santana shiver. 

Artie flaps his hands, his face blushing despite his braggadocio. “Yeah. You ladies go do your thing. We’ll eat, we’ll head down to the Carlton, do the interview, maybe roll around the _Croisette_ and see if anyone recognizes us?”

Brittany rests her chin on Santana’s shoulder and Santana turns towards her to grin beatifically. “Sounds like a plan.”

~~~

By the time Brittany and Santana are dressed Tina has arrived. They return to the kitchen area to see that she has joined Artie, the both of them maneuvering around each other with an ease born of a lot of practice. There are fresh fruits cut up, and Brittany leads Santana by the hand to sit in the seat closest to them.

“Want me to braid your hair?” Santana asks, her words garbled and wet as they mix with her mouthful of melon and grapes. The answer to that question is pretty much always yes, so it’s more rhetorical than anything else. “Go get me some bobby pins. I’ll do you a crown.”

Breakfast is sedate - as much as any meeting with Artie can be called that. Santana and Brittany split a spinach omelette between them and Santana slaps Brittany’s hand when she reaches for the salt (“Not today, you don’t want to get bloated!”). Brittany spoons local honey from a pot over Santana’s oatmeal and spreads jam on her toast. Artie chatters on and on about the first time he came here, way back when he was on a little screen in the Short Film Corner, and Brittany distracts him from a sixth retelling of that tale by pulling him into a conversation about camera hardware.

When they finish their slow breakfast Brittany goes to the bedroom and picks out a pair of emergency LBDs and black heels to match for storage at Artie and Tina’s place nearer to the _Palais_. Santana struggles to put on her wedge sandals around the immensity of her orange, paisley printed stomach until Tina kneels down to help. “Are you sure these are going to be comfortable? There’s a lot of walking, Santana.”

“I will throw myself off the balcony before I waddle around in flats like a penguin. I’ve handled worse than some uncomfortable shoes,” she snaps.

Tina smacks her ankle. “Don’t be a bitch or I’ll let you try to tie your own laces. We’ll see how you feel when you fall onto your back and get stuck like a snapping turtle.”

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk.”

“I’m not sure I can get these on around your hooves.”

“Well don’t work up a sweat, Porky Pig.”

Artie clears his throat, uncomfortable as his wife snipes back and forth with a pregnant woman but unwilling to step in without being asked. He hopes Brittany comes back soon because if he tries to break up a fight he’s sure that Santana will purposely try to tip his chair over, and there’s really no way to win if he puts his hands on either woman. Tina is scrappy and her last role involved extensive martial arts training, but Santana has started a fight with a wrestler twice her size and refused to stay down so that is not a brawl he wants to get in the middle of.

“I have no idea why I used to be so intimidated by you. Your insults are so dated. First you bring up a stutter I faked _years_ ago. Are you going to talk about my old chain wallet next?”

“Well, it’s not like your style has improved much. I just keep you around to make me look even better in comparison.”

There’s a tiny smile at the corners of Tina’s mouth, and that makes Artie feel a bit better about whatever weird verbal duel they’ve got going on. His wife sucks her teeth. “Now you sound like Rachel.”

Santana gasps and clutches her breast. “I can’t believe you would say that to me. I thought we were friends. You are off our Christmas card list.”

“Wow, that sucks for you guys. I mean, our cards are gonna be especially cute this year. Spoiler alert: there is gonna be a baby dressed like an elf in them.” Brittany says as she wanders in from the back rooms and tosses two plastic covered dresses across Artie’s lap. Nervously, he runs his hands over them, his damp palms pulling and sticking to the protective layer. His co-director is as calm as ever though, stepping off to the left and grabbing her wife’s hand and then gesturing for Tina to take her right so they can pull Santana off the couch to her feet.

Santana straightens her cotton dress and sniffs, delicately. “Thanks, Mako Mori.”

“While that’s probably the closest to a compliment you’ve ever given me, you are above casual racism by now,” Tina informs her as she tugs the back of Santana’s dress into place. Artie reaches across to the door and discretely tries to move the party along, futilely hoping that if they make it to the first floor where people are milling around both women will tone it down a bit.

Santana straightens her neckline and adjusts the dark leather belt that hangs loose and low under the heft of her belly. “That is where you’re wrong, Jubilee. Now move before the baby starts pummeling my bladder and I have to pee again.”

Tina drives the rented car. Santana yells at her for driving too fast and too slow at the same time. Artie considers opening the car door and rolling out into a ditch. Brittany contemplates Santana’s protruding belly button through the fabric of her clothes. The drive feels surprisingly short.

The interview is in the hotel’s restaurant and Tina leaves the parking to a valet so they can all walk in together. The seating area is lightly populated by some early brunchers. A man rises to meet them and leads them to a table near the back, close to the floor to ceiling single-pane windows overlooking an aggressively well-tended garden. He greets them with effusive enthusiasm and politely pours them all glasses from the sweating pitcher in the center of the table - fresh, clean water with moons of lemon and cucumber floating in it - and they, in turn, politely decline his offer to order something for them to eat. That lasts just long enough for their interviewer to pull out his recording device before Santana sees someone eating smoked salmon and tugs insistently on Brittany’s arm. She grins and kisses Santana’s warm shoulder before calling back the waiter they’d just waved off in perfectly clean, accented French, but with undeniably American volume. The interviewer laughs, seemingly delighted.

The interviewer speaks in English, his mouth slow and careful around the words. He introduces himself - Michel - and there is a little light conversation - “How are you liking Cannes? Have you seen the beaches? Have you tried the food at this place?” - before he gets into the meat of it.

“Ladies, gentleman,” Michel begins, tapping the base of his pen against the notepad before him, “How did you all come to work together? You all knew each other before this film, correct?”

Brittany turns to Artie and gives him a slight nod as she settles into her seat, throwing her arm across the back of Santana’s chair. “Well, we’ve been friends for awhile -”

“We met in high school.” Brittany interjects, and Santana hides her grin as Michel takes her glib correction as elaboration.

“- And while I was between jobs Brittany called me up and asked me to look at a short film she and Santana had made. It was different from a lot of her previous work - her talk show work-”

“I’d done some home movies,” Brittany interrupts again in her customary deadpan, with just enough emphasis to make Santana’s neck heat up at the subtle euphemism.

“‘Home movies’.” Tina repeats, keeping her face straight and tone flat as she mimics Brittany in a knowing way that makes Santana feel like squirming in her seat.

Artie grins but moves on. “When I saw it I was really impressed. It was a very character intense film for a first time venture: no dialogue, very little in the way of setting, no other actors but Santana and the kids.” 

“We were talking about having kids at the time and I had a lot of anxiety about it.” Santana adds, rubbing her stomach absently. “And at that point our marriage still wasn’t even legally recognized in the state we grew up in. There was a lot of stuff going on that made me scared, stuff that I was scared to bring a baby into. And we were watching Brittany’s baby sister’s kids, which always starts us talking about, you know, expanding our own family, and I started getting in my feelings again and Brittany was just, like… ‘We should sing about it!’.” 

The former Glee members laugh and the reporter nods encouragingly, opting to let them all ramble rather than try to direct the conversation.

“I was serious, too. That night we were watching one of these apocalypse movies our oldest niece loves with her and something she said made me think about, you know, doing something. When I thought it up it was just going to be something different to share with my followers online, to work through the issues we were going through; to find other people who were stressing over the same stuff.”

Santana appreciates her wife glossing over how Jo’s offhanded comment that weaved her into the preteen’s ridiculous “preppers” planning made her burst into ugly tears; how she pulled the girl into her side and sobbed into the top of her head for an embarrassingly long time. Across the table Artie laps up the story, even though he’s heard versions of it over and over.

“So I got the idea for us to do a movie with the kids, kind of goofing off, and it was going to be about a woman with a baby scrounging around trying to survive after the end of the world and then finding a bomb shelter and her kind of raising the kid there. At first it was kind of upbeat - in the first cut the ending was the kid opening the shelter for the first time since they entered when she was a baby and there was sunlight and then-”

“I totally fucked it up and made it depressing.” Santana says.

With a laugh like a bark, Artie adds, “That’s the version of the short film they showed me, the messed up and depressing version. I think it was a lot stronger.”

“Yeah. I edited out the beginning where Santana was running around outside and the whole film focused on the bunker.”

“Very claustrophobic,” Artie says, nodding along. “It made the movie a lot darker. Not knowing what was going on outside made you reassess what this woman was doing with a kid that, frankly, looked nothing like her. Maybe she was biological, maybe adopted, maybe rescued, maybe kidnapped. Maybe the world really did end. Maybe not.”

Brittany strokes her fingers over the fine bones of her wife’s hands, giving her a soft look. Santana gives her hand a gentle squeeze in return, and Brittany continues. “That’s the one we sent to Artie. He suggested we send it around the film circuits, but when you do that you can’t release it elsewhere and that’s not what it was really about, you know? So I talked about it with Santana and we agreed to send it here and use that as an excuse to have a vacation.”

Michel looks surprised. “I was not aware that you participated in the festival before.” There’s a red tinge to his face as Michel taps pen to paper nervously. “I apologize, I meant no offense. My research is clearly lacking. I had only heard of Mr and Mrs Cohen-Chang’s nominations in _Un Certain Regard_.”

Tina clicks her tongue, her face the picture of sympathy. “Don’t feel too bad, they didn’t win anything.”

“No, it didn’t really pick up traction until Brittany released it on her Youtube account. Since then it’s the longest video to break the top twenty most viewed,” Santana says, knowing it’s bait but unable to resist the reflexive urge to defend Brittany’s enterprises. Michel doesn’t seem overly impressed, but he doesn’t sneer in some stereotypically dismissive French fashion. The waiter comes over with Santana’s smoked salmon and Brittany quickly tops a square of dark bread with a thin slice and presents it to her before she can get too wound up over the slight, real or imagined as it may be.

“We got a lot of really valuable exposure online,” Brittany breezes on. “Artie asked if we had thought about turning it into a real movie. He and I started working on the first draft together between other projects.”

Artie chuckles. “She’s being generous.”

“It was my first screenplay. He helped a lot with getting the pacing right, keeping the story going. I’ve never really worked with something so long, so it was all new to me.”

“The evolution of the story really blew me away. She managed to move it from that sort of dank, lonely basement and into a world that was bright and lush but still had those elements - the emotions - that made the short resonate.” The enthusiasm in Artie’s voice makes Brittany grin.

Delicately, Santana blots the corners of her mouth. “The original idea was really bleak, because that’s where we were at when we filmed it. But when Brittany was writing the screenplay for the film, we were in a better place. The same issues were there, but we were talking to my mother, to her mother, to Tina and Artie, to our friends, and that made everything… it changed a lot. And that’s the core of the movie - that the world is harsh and unfair but finding family, support, trusting in other people... you can survive it; you can thrive.” 

Brittany’s chest aches, her heart filling up with a love so big she thinks it might crack her ribs wide open. The only thing that stops her from scooping Santana up and making a scene in the middle of the interview is Tina’s arms wrapping around Santana’s shoulders first. Her wife rolls her eyes at both the tears on her own cheeks and Tina’s physical affection and half-heartedly pushes her away. Even Artie’s eyes are soft and wet at Santana’s tremulous admission. 

“I think she’s the film’s greatest strength, you know?” Tina says, pressing her cheek to Santana’s cheek even as the other woman struggles against her, laughing and embarrassed at the sudden outpouring of emotion. “A good director is important but acting opposite Santana, she just puts so much emotion into everything and gives you so much to work off of. It’s amazing. The whole cast was just a joy to work with. But this is definitely Santana’s heart and soul poured into film.”

~~~

They sit in at the table long after Michel leaves - he shakes their hands, kisses the air beside their faces, thanks them for their time and pays the tab. Santana digs her fingers into the sides of her stomach after he’s gone. “Did that go well? I don’t know if that went well. He didn’t ask a lot of questions. Usually they ask a bunch of stupid ass questions like how it felt having my wife direct me making out with someone else or how many ounces of kale I ate to prepare for the role.”

“Well, they use the metric system here,” Artie jokes.

Brittany scoots her chair close and tugs Santana into her side, tucking her in tight and rubbing her hand up and down her arm. On her wife’s other side, Tina cuts a wedge of pear and tops another piece of bread and salmon with it before pressing it into Santana’s hand. “I think he got what he wanted. It was intimate, something different than soundbites and clickbait headlines.” The other woman says, and Brittany nods her agreement. Santana pops the food into her mouth, chewing stiffly. There’s a clench in her jaw and a harshness to her angles. Tina prepares another bite for Santana and watches carefully as Santana throws that in her mouth too, her actions jerky and thoughtless. “You’re nervous, but it’s ok. It’s the hormones,” she says with an air of certainty. Brittany thinks of the baby Cohen-Chang, miles away.

The next mouthful goes slower, her chewing more thoughtful. “You’re probably right,” Santana allows. “Give me more rye bread, that might help.”

“How do y’all feel about going to the beach? Maybe going down to the pier, seeing if there’s a party to crash on one of the houseboats?” A round of groans follows that suggestion and Artie throws up his hands. “Just a suggestion!”

Brittany steals a sliver of salmon and drops it into her upturned mouth like a baby bird, causing Santana to whine and slap at her playfully. Grabbing Santana’s hand before it connects with her arm again, she brings it to her lips and kisses it. Her wife gives her the sweetest smile and she presses her lips to her swollen ring finger. Santana’s hand tries to curl into a fist at the attention to her “sausages” but Brittany firmly pries it open again, dragging it up to cup her face and pressing another kiss to the heel of her wife’s palm. 

“I want to go take a picture with Meryl Streep’s handprint.” Brittany blurts out into the hollow of Santana’s hand. It comes out muffled and she shifts Santana’s grip to repeat herself. “We should go see the less cool Walk of Fame. I want to see how much stuff I can fit in Meryl’s hands.” Specifically, she wants to get a picture of Santana’s boobs in the depression of 1989 Meryl Streep’s hand, but she opts not to reveal that just yet.

It’s not a far walk at all from the hotel so nobody argues. Santana does argue about getting down on the ground for Brittany’s picture, and both she and Tina pretend they don’t know them when Artie convinces Brittany to help him take her place. Artie delicately arranges his legs by hand before reclining back in a pose reminiscent of Kate Winslet’s iconic painting scene in Titanic, the hand print just visible under him..

“Ridiculous,” Santana says, even as she tries to hide the meaningful look she gives to Tina when the other woman takes her own pictures.

They move on when the crowds get too big. But then the crowds get big everywhere. People press in tight along _La Croisette_ as they near the most popular hotels again. Artie’s chair helps them cut a path and Santana positions herself in his wake, but Brittany finds herself angrily elbowing people who have the nerve to jostle uncomfortably close. One guy stares at Santana, at Santana’s chest, and he keeps staring as she walks by which means he isn’t watching when Brittany hip checks him and he stumbles, dominoing into another guy and another guy and another guy - none of them hit the ground but it makes Santana laugh darkly anyway. She reaches behind her, resting the back of her hand just above her ass and wiggling her fingers. Brittany reaches for it and holds it tight as they walk single file. 

Suddenly there’s a clamor and someone shouts out Brittany’s name. It cascades and then there’s more people shouting and too bright flashes. 

“It figures Brittany would be the first to get recognized.” Santana can’t tell if Tina is amused or salty, but she doesn’t really care. The closest clutch of fans are all excitedly chattering in rapid Spanish and Brittany pulls Santana close, putting herself between her and the excited people closing in on them. Santana is grinning, hands holding Brittany at her waist and belly pressed into her back. She squeezes Brittany eagerly, her fingers digging warmly into her hips. 

“Look at all your fans, baby!” 

Brittany can’t help but smile too. The fans speak quickly, rushing over themselves and each other in their almost breathless excitement. _I can’t believe you’re here! Santana is so pretty, even prettier in person! Will you sign my leg? Can I take a selfie with you guys?_ The crowd swells, some more actual fans and some paps with overly large cameras and some people just interested in what all the fuss is about. Brittany can’t fill all of their requests, but she takes pictures with some teenagers and a group of middle aged women with a higher than average ratio of short buzzes and flannel shirts who laughingly say they’re “on a cruise” in thick, slow southern drawls.

Before long it starts to snowball out of control. The jostling crowd takes over the sidewalk and backs them into the courtyard of Hotel Martinez. The press of people makes Brittany nervous - it only takes one overzealous person knocking into Santana to send her sprawling with her shifted center of gravity. Tina and Artie are signing autographs of their own, the experience still novel enough that they don’t know when enough is enough.

“Santana and I are going to go get a table somewhere and take a break,” Brittany says, drawing her wife’s arm around her waist and tucking Santana’s fingers into the loop of her belt, anchoring them together. Santana doesn’t argue and Tina nods absently in acknowledgement. Pressing through the crush of bodies shoulder first, Brittany excuses herself as she goes in the sort of tone that suggests she’s not really sorry at all.

The restaurants around the strip have the kind of security that Brittany is willing to drop her card for, and they gently turn away the excited fans that try to follow them in. They’re seated quickly and Brittany feels like she can breathe again. She holds Santana’s hand as her wife orders juice and a salad. Once the waiter leaves, a foot wraps around her ankle. Santana’s hand rests on her leg, stroking up and down briefly before sliding between them to grip her inner thigh. Her next breath comes out in a weak shudder. “Don’t get stressed out, Bijou. Rolo gets squirmy when you’re upset.”

Brittany smiles and leans into her wife. She presses her forehead against Santana’s neck and rests a hand over her navel. “Are you guys ok?”

Santana hums, gently smoothing over the woven braids in Brittany’s hair and tucking down flyaways. “We’re great. I’m tired and she is apparently starving all the time. She seems to be favoring my lungs when she decides to practice her kickboxing rather than my bladder today. So that’s fun.”

Sucking her teeth, Brittany drums her fingers on Santana’s stomach. “Well, settle down in there. I’m still supposed to have nine weeks where I’m the only one taking mama’s breath away.” Santana groans. 

“You are so god damn corny.”

“You love it.”

The smile that Santana gives her makes Brittany’s heart thump. “I love you,” Santana corrects. “And your terrible dad jokes.”

“That is gender essentialist language and it has no place in our relationship. I make amazing mom jokes.”

Santana’s nose wrinkles. “‘Gender essentialist’? Are you channeling Tina now?”

“Wow. Wow, ok. That’s just… I want a divorce.” The waiter comes, at that moment, and he looks like he’s never regretted anything more as he sees what he seems to think is a marriage disintegrating before his eyes. She takes the plate from his hands and sets it before Santana, who gives him a smile and a little _merci_ that just about gives Brittany a toothache, it’s so sweet.

When he walks away, Santana digs into the salad with gusto. “I just wanna be clear,” she says, mouth full of roughage before she pauses to swallow. “If you ever divorce me I won’t share custody and I’ll fight you for insane child support and alimony, so that I can spend all my time supporting her and I’ll get her all the best tutors in everything so when she cures cancer and becomes president of the united states she completely overshadows your legacy.”

“Ok, see, that just sounds awesome. Except for the divorce thing. Can we skip that but do all the other stuff?”

Santana cocks her head, offering up her especially soft cheek for Brittany to kiss. And she does, happily. Over and over again, as Santana giggles and smiles and twists to offer up more softness. Lazily, she brushes her nose against Santana’s neck. Her wife laughs, ticklish. “We definitely can. I want that so much.”

“I do too.”

Santana grins and squeezes her thigh. It makes her tremble. Her watch says they have four hours until they have to be on the carpet. “So I know we planned on hanging out here with Tina and Artie until it was time to get ready…” Startled, Santana grabs her wrist and twists the chunky watch there around so she can see it, too. “We’ve got time. I wanna spend it touching you. You wanna call a taxi and sneak back to the villa?”

The keen edge that spreads over her wife’s face says they’re on the same page.

~~~

“Baby, sit up. You’re gonna make yourself dizzy.”

Brittany looks down from her cellphone and the dozen all caps text messages from her co-director and tries to take advantage of her flipped position to peek under Santana’s slip. It doesn’t work very well because she is, actually, super dizzy.

Straightening up from the low vanity, Santana comes over and stands by the end of the bed. She’s too close for Brittany to see her face from her upside down vantage, but she does have an excellent view of Santana’s golden brown ankles and knees. Dropping her phone to the wood floor, she trails her hands up and down the satin smooth backs of her wife’s legs.

“Come on, Bijou. You need makeup, you need your hair done, we need to pour you into your dress.” Santana ticks each chore off on her fingers.

Clumsily, Brittany slides off the bed. Her ass hits the floor with a thump and she lays there for a moment, waiting for her head to stop spinning. Her stomach lurches a little. “Wooof,” she groans.

Santana gives her a concerned look. “Baby?”

“‘M ok. ‘M ok.” Hauling herself upright, she plops onto the foot of the bed and grabs Santana around the waist, resting her head on her wife’s belly. Santana cradles her throbbing skull gently. They are both acutely aware of how badly Santana wants to say “I told you so” and Brittany loves her for it. “One day I will teach you responsible headstands. Learn from my mistakes Rolo,” she mumbles into the skin beneath her forehead.

Their timetable doesn’t let her linger for nearly as long as she wants to. Santana sits on top of the vanity and Brittany takes the seat. It’s a position that keeps Rolo out of the way and lets Santana begin her work of evening out Brittany’s slightly sunburnt neck and face. She tucks her feet between her wife’s thighs, and her wife’s hands tuck themselves under her hem.

“Marrying you was such a good idea. I get a live in stylist, and I don’t even have to pay for it.” Brittany smiles up at Santana’s intensely focused face. She loves getting ready to go out with Santana. There’s nobody else in this whole entire world that cares more about making her look good than her wife - and that’s including her publicist, the person whose job is _literally_ making her look good.

Santana laughs. “My walk-in closet says you’re paying more than you think you are.”

“Worth it. Even though Tina’s stylist would probably let me wear more lipliner.”

Clicking her tongue, Santana turns to dig through her wife’s makeup bag. “Tina’s stylist is an idiot. He always puts too much blush on. And, frankly, unless you’re a Kardashian you shouldn’t be accenting your eyes _and_ your lips _and_ your cheeks; it’s too damn much. And even then it’s like, slow down bitches. Save some kohl for the rest of us. But your eyes,” she breathes, staring deep into sharp, catseye blue, “-that’s where the focus should be.”

Brittany smirks and steals a kiss. Those big, brown eyes flutter closed, and Brittany can’t help but grin as the hum in her throat and the way the subtle, testing strokes of her hands at the tops of Santana’s thighs makes her wife sway like a charmed snake. “Stop that. You’re distracting me. We have to get ready. We are not going to be photographed at an international event looking like we got dressed in the car.”

“I’m a big fan of the ‘I just got re-dressed in the car’ look though.”

Biting the inside of her lip to keep her face straight, Santana gently pats moisturizer over the delicate skin under Brittany’s eyes. Her wife has that maddeningly smug look on her face, the one that says she knows that Santana is now imagining the only thing between them and an indecent exposure charge are tinted windows.

As Santana works, Brittany thinks of high school, of Santana practicing her eyeshadow blending with her as a more than willing model. Santana’s touch had felt so good, long before she realized how badly she craved it. She still shivers when Santana looks at her like she is now; like she sees every single flaw and loves them individually. Hands rub across her forehead, swooping down over her temples to her cheeks and jaw in broad strokes as Santana gently massages in the moisturizer. 

There is fine dust and pigments next. Lovingly, Santana dabs thick concealer over the dark circles under her eyes and the darkest freckles; the spot at the corner of her mouth gets a delicate kiss before it’s covered up.

“Hold these.” A trio of brushes are thrust at her and she removes her right hand from under Santana’s slip, taking them from her wife and holding them in a fist that she rests on top of her thigh. Santana plucks one out and pats gold dust over Brittany’s eyelids, and then jams it back into her fist and pulls out another, smaller brush to do what feels like the same thing; with her eyes closed she can’t exactly see what’s going on but she trusts that Santana knows what she’s doing.

“We should have gotten you extensions,” Santana idly notes as she pares down a set of fake eyelashes with nail scissors. “Like Angelina Jolie in that movie where she was part dragon or whatever.”

“The Sleeping Beauty one? Wasn’t she wearing a skull cap for most of it?”

Santana gestures sharply with her chin and Brittany opens her eyes wide and holds very, very still. Carefully, with a steady hand, Santana adheres the little spidery stickers to the underside of Brittany’s natural lashes. She rubs the smear of cosmetic adhesive on the back of her hand off on a tissue and blows lightly over the lashes, testing the hold.

“I think she just turns someone into a dragon in that one. I’m thinking of the one where she’s like 95% CGI and gold body paint. We could have gotten you extensions down to your ass.”

The lashes hold tight as she blinks rapidly.”We would have needed a lot more bling if I had extensions that long. Plus all that weight would have given me such a headache.”

“True,” Santana nods, sounding relieved. 

Squeezing Santana’s thigh under her left hand, she purses her lips for a soft kiss. “This is going to be great, honey.” Santana puffs out a breath against her mouth and she surges forward to steal another kiss. And another, and another, and another. 

Santana pulls away and clears her throat. “Your lashes are probably dry now.”

The whole ordeal takes way longer than Brittany would normally agree to sit without general anaesthesia being involved, but being able to stare at Santana makes it not so bad. “Turn around. I wanna do your hair before you see the whole thing.”

“Awwww,” Brittany whines. She does as she’s told. Santana wraps her legs around her, resting her feet on her thighs, and Brittany takes the opportunity to tickle the tops of them lightly. Her wife’s toes scrunch up and dig into her as Santana laughs and pulls her hair in retaliation. When she touches them with a firmer caress Santana turns her attention to styling her hair. It goes much faster than the makeup, even with the fine, thin gold chains she weaves into the loose plait.

“Ok, let me up. My ass is numb.”

Brittany moves aside, holding Santana’s hands as she slides off the vanity to the floor again. Her body twists and stretches and makes the sort of noises Brittany usually associates more with wet breakfast cereal than her wife. “Ohhhhh, my god. That feels so good,” Santana moans throatily, pressing both hands against the small of her own back. 

That sound is a much more familiar wife sound.

Without Santana blocking the mirror, Brittany finally gets a look at her look. Everything is gold and shiny. Around her eyes, her skin, her hair. Her lips are a warm, summer-y pink. She blinks at herself slowly, marveling at the perfectly symmetrical cat-eye styled eyeliner. “It looks so good,” she praises. “I feel like like an 80s cartoon character.”

“It’s tragic that you think that’s a good thing.”

“I look amazing.” In the mirror Santana stares at her; hands tucked under her chin and a beatific smile on her face. “You’re amazing. I wanna kiss you but you’ll yell about me messing up your work.”

“I set that shit so hard you’ll need paint thinner to get it off. But you need to get out so I can get ready. You make me forget how colors work.”

~~~

Their car is parked in a long queue of identical black cars. Artie and Tina are in their own car behind them. Or in front of them. They’ve lost track. Nervously, Santana fusses with their dresses. Her fingers pluck at the heavy scalemail harness over Brittany’s emerald, jewel toned gown, smoothing the gold-bronze-copper scales as if she can make them lay flatter or more perfectly than they already are.

“We should have gotten you a fluffier dress. You could have been the kidnapped princess to my sexy dragon.”

Santana’s hand trails down to lace with her wife’s. “We’re too old for couples’ costumes. Besides, you look chic. If I tried anything like that I’d just look crazy. Or desperate.” Brittany squeezes her fingers.

“You’re so gorgeous.” The rich, plum fabric of Santana’s dress clings to her like snake-skin; every curve in stark relief. “I’m so proud to be here with you. I’m so happy that I got to create this with you,” Brittany says, gesturing widely to the car and everything outside it. “And also this.” Her other hand settles on Santana’s stomach, and Rolo beneath it.

Santana’s eyes go wet. “I love you so much,” she sniffles, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a kerchief from her clutch. “Don’t make me ugly cry right now.”

The car door opens and a gentleman in a tux stands there. “ _Brittany and Santana Lopez-Pierce_?”

“That’s us!” Brittany says with a grin. She literally never gets tired of hearing her name, now. “ _Is it our turn_?”

“ _Yes._ ” The gentleman says, nodding and offering her his hand. She waves him off, hiking her dress up and sliding out smoothly. Santana scooches from the far side, slow and careful to not wrinkle her gown. At the threshold she pauses and Brittany can see the nerves all over her face

“Come on, baby.” Brittany holds both hands out, palm up. “Come dance with me.”

“I love you,” Santana repeats with a besotted sigh, tucking her hands into her wife’s and allowing her to pull her in for a brief, chaste kiss. Brittany smiles as she leans as close to Santana’s lips as she can without smearing their lipsticks between them, taking advantage of their last few seconds of near privacy as they hover in the door of the car.

Quietly, Brittany whispers back. “I love you.” Santana’s cheeks go rust red and she grips her wife’s hands hard, clutching them to her breast. Gently, slowly, Brittany guides Santana out of the car and onto the carpet. Her heart swells to feel Santana tuck herself into her side, to see her straighten her back and lift her head and grin proudly as they stride down this famous red carpet, together.


End file.
